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Chapter 11

Sometimes, while meditating on these things in solitude, Iíve
got up in a sudden terror, and put on my bonnet to go and
see how all was at the farm. Iíve persuaded my conscience
that it was a duty to warn him how people talked regarding his
ways; and then Iíve recollected his confirmed bad habits, and,
hopeless of benefiting him, have flinched from re-entering the
dismal house, doubting if I could bear to be taken at my word.

One time I passed the old gate, going out of my way, on a
journey to Gimmerton. It was about the period that my narrative
has reached: a bright frosty afternoon, the ground bare, and the
road hard and dry.

I came to a stone where the highway branches off on to the
moor at your left hand; a rough sand-pillar, with the letters W.H.
cut on its north side, on the east, G., and on the southwest, T.G. It
serves as guide-post to the Grange, and Heights, and village.

The sun shone yellow on its grey head, reminding me of
summer; and I cannot say why, but all at once a gush of childís
sensations flowed into my heart. Hindley and I held it a favourite
spot twenty years before.

I gazed long at the weather-worn block, and, stooping down,
perceived a hole near the bottom still full of snail-shells and
pebbles, which we were fond of storing there with more perishable
things; and, as fresh as reality, it appeared that I beheld my early
playmate seated on the withered turf: his dark, square head bent
forward, and his little hand scooping out the earth with a piece of

ďPoor Hindley!Ē I exclaimed involuntarily.

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